It Gets Better

by Dan Savage

LOS ANGELES, CA

  What, what, what are you doing?!

  It gets better. It really does. In middle school, high school, even college—I went to a pretty conservative Catholic college—I was not out at all. I wasn’t bullied, because I tried so hard to fit in. I regret that. I regret not being who I was more. But it’s hard. It’s hard to do that sometimes.

  A lot of times in high school I wouldn’t do the things that I wanted to, like acting, and writing, and doing improv, all of the things I get to do now and love. I didn’t do them in high school because I thought it would make me seem gay and I thought I’d get picked on. I didn’t even take an improv class until I turned thirty years old, which is ridiculous. Why did I wait so long to do something I love so much?

  I felt the same way about coming out. I didn’t even go on a date with a guy until I was twenty-four. When I finally did, it was so great. I really liked him, and it felt so good to just go out with somebody who I really liked. I immediately regretted all that time I wasted trying to fit in and be something I wasn’t.

  So I’m telling you: I know we wait because we’re scared. And if you’re scared right now, try and find those couple of people, or more, who are trustworthy, who you feel can help you. Or look on the Internet for resources, or read books. I love books. Most young adult books—I still love young adult literature—are about people who are outsiders, who come to realize that they’re okay. So think of your life as a book. If high school’s hard, imagine you’re just in that part of the book, and you’re going to get to the good part soon. And that good part could be meeting new friends, or doing things you never thought you were allowed to do, or meeting someone you could date, or living in an exciting new place. Or, maybe, the good part is just staying where you are and getting more confident about who you are. There are a ton of ways your story could get better, and high school is just a few chapters in a really long, exciting book.

  Today I have so many great friends—gay friends, straight friends. And my relationships with everyone I came out to—my family, my friends—are so much better. But that all happens later in the book, so please stick around for the whole story. It will be great. I make these videos poking fun at Juliet for killing herself in Romeo and Juliet. And I just wish I could zoom into every scared gay kid’s life and say, “What are you doing?” I can’t. But you can do it for yourself. I believe in you.

  It gets better. So stick around.

  Brian Gallivan grew up near Boston, Massachusetts, and used to be a middle school teacher before he started improvising. He was part of the mainstage cast at the Second City in Chicago, and he now lives in Los Angeles where he writes, acts, and makes Sassy Gay Friend videos for the Second City Network.

  PROTECT AND SERVE LOVES SEMPER FIDELIS

  by J. D. Davis and Allen D. Stone

  BALSAM, NC, AND SAN JOSE, CA

  Allen: I was raised in rural southwestern Ohio. The closest town was five miles away. Monday through Friday was for school and work; Friday and Saturday nights were for parties; Sunday was for church. Homosexuality was not discussed and the term faggot was the worst name that a person could be called. Faggots were limp-wristed, effeminate guys who walked with a swish and were attracted to other men. . . .

  Hence my dilemma. The only part of the definition that applied to me was that I was attracted to other men, but I was worried: If a faggot was a limp-wristed, effeminate guy who walked with a swish and was attracted to other men . . . and I was attracted to other men . . . would I eventually fit the rest of the definition, too? Would I start walking with a swish?

  Primarily motivated by this fear, I joined the United States Marine Corps. Known for being the most macho of the armed services, the Marines are also the most respected. Off to boot camp I went.

  The first few years of my stint in the Marines were relatively uneventful: I became more mentally fit; I became physically stronger; I became a well-respected leader in my units. However, my attraction to other men never ceased—but somehow I never started walking with a swish.

  That made me begin to question the faggot stereotype that had inspired such fear in me. Soon I realized that I was an ignorant and naïve where homosexuality was concerned—but I was learning.

  Years later, while still in the Marine Corps, I had my first real relationship with another man.

  It was wonderful to see him when I was on leave, but sadness would arise when I returned to my unit. I could not seek comfort or advice from my superiors and friends in the Corps as that would “out me.” I loved the Corps and didn’t want to leave, but I loved my significant other, too. Sadly, my significant other could never be there to greet me when I came home from deployments. My significant other could not participate in unit functions and was not entitled to the same privileges that the heterosexual spouses of my fellow Marines enjoyed.

  Due to the stress of our separation and the discrimination we faced as a couple, my first relationship gradually evolved into a friendship, so I was alone again and had two more years remaining on my second tour.

  Eventually I was forced to choose between my military career and being with a man I could love. I chose the latter. And soon after leaving the Marines I would meet and fall in love with an incredible man named J.D.

  J.D.: When I was in high school, even when I was in middle school, I was picked on constantly. My biggest bully was a person who had been one of my best friends in early childhood, but he decided to start calling me a faggot in adolescence. We were both in the band, and I can still recall exactly how terrified I was every day walking to band practice: Would today be the day he attacks me? I would think. Would he and the other bullies be lying in wait for me to beat me, call me a queer, throw me down the stairs?

  On one of the worst days of my life, this bully nearly killed me by running my car off the road with his pickup truck. Although I was proud of myself for being able to outmaneuver him, the memory of this injustice clung to me through college. Then, when I started graduate school, I briefly dated a gay police officer, and through him, I remembered how much I revered law enforcement officers when I was a child.

  After I came out, I decided I could be anything I wanted in spite of all the negative messages I had received about gay men. I was strong, smart, and capable—and I could make a difference. I became a police officer myself and swore to protect the rights of the oppressed, including my lesbian and gay sisters and brothers. I was tough and brave and well trained. I certainly wasn’t weak, as I had been led to believe all gay men were by the homophobes who had tormented me in my youth.

  Allen: Years after leaving the Marines, with the help of the Internet and social networking, I reconnected with several of my military friends. We shared memories of the Corps and the changes that had taken place in our lives since leaving. I finally came out to these friends and it turned out that many of them had other friends who were gay. They were very accepting.

  Today, we are much closer to LGBTQ persons being able to serve openly in the military. (I honestly feel that the superiors in one of my units knew of my sexual orientation—and didn’t care—as long as I did my job.) Soon gay soldiers will be able to share their stories with their families and friends and have their same-sex partners and gay friends see them off at deployments, and welcome them when they come home.

  The old stereotypes are slowly dying off. We are doctors, homemakers, trash collectors, executives, factory workers—and, yes, some of us are hairdressers. Some gay men are effeminate and some lesbian women are butch. But none of that has any bearing on our potential.

  From this Marine’s perspective, it’s clear that the fight for our rights will soon be won and the perception that we are somehow less than other people will fade to nothingness. We will be accepted—in spite of the actions of an increasingly smaller minority of bigoted persons who hate and bully us—for who we are.

  J.D.: We want you to know that no matter what you think about yourself right now and no matter what stupid or hateful names you might be c
alled—whether they say you’re too feminine, whether they say you’re too masculine—you are perfect and wonderful exactly as you are.

  And we’re here today to tell you that it does get better.

  Allen: And it will keep getting even better.

  J. D. Davis holds a PhD from the University of Georgia and currently teaches Spanish and French at a university in the South. He resigned from his position in law enforcement shortly after the inception of the It Gets Better Project in order to devote more time to writing about his experiences in law enforcement and about his battles with bigotry during his career as a cop. He is the cowinner of the 2005 Fetkann Prize for Literature for his contribution to the anthology Hurricane: Cris d’Insulaires.

  Allen D. Stone is currently a doctor of chiropractic in the state of California. He was raised in the farming fields of southwestern Ohio and spent eight years in the United States Marine Corps. Allen left the Marine Corps due to his inability to both serve and be in a loving, intimate relationship with a man.

  THE DOORS OF ACCEPTANCE

  by Shaun Ridgway

  SAVANNAH, GA

  When I was twelve years old, I had my first crush on a girl.

  I had been raised in a Catholic environment and was in seventh grade at a parochial school at the time. I didn’t know then what having a crush on a girl meant; I just thought I was crazy. All I wanted to know was why God had made me so terrible. Why God had made me gay; why I’d been cursed with this. So I kept it a secret.

  Since I didn’t actually know what to do with this information at twelve, I ignored it. When sixteen rolled around, I was the weird kid in high school—the one that’s kind of chubby; the one that no one really understood. And then I met the most beautiful, wonderful girl and I fell instantly in love. Though nothing ever came of it, and I continued to date men, somehow people found out that I had a crush on a girl. Word got out, even the administration found out, and instantly, instantly, people were saying, “Shaun’s a lesbian.”

  Honestly, I didn’t know how to respond, what to tell them. So I told them that I couldn’t change who I was. That I had a crush on a girl and someone found out, and that wasn’t my fault. From that moment on, I was considered even weirder.

  I wanted to die. Everything was so sad and so horrendous. Before this all exploded, I was trying to get into college; now, on top of that, I was supposed to figure out how to be gay, too. I felt overwhelmed and hopeless.

  Yet the moment I walked through those high school doors for the last time, diploma in hand, it instantly, instantly got better. In fact, it got wonderful. I immediately fit in at college. It was like everything I had ever worked toward meant something all of a sudden. College let me be who I was meant to be. And that crush on that girl when I was sixteen grew to better and better things with someone else.

  I remember one day in college I commented to no one in particular, “Oh my goodness. Look at that cute girl.” I heard someone else say, “Man, she is really cute.” When I looked to see who had responded, I realized it was a girl, and she had agreed with me that another girl was cute. Coming from a family where my sexuality had never been accepted and then going to a high school where we didn’t talk about sex of any kind, to realize that someone else agreed with me that a girl was attractive, was beautiful. I knew right then that this was who I was. This was the acceptance I needed. I knew I was going in the right direction, and from there on out, I experienced four years of just 100 percent, pure individuality.

  I discovered who I was. It didn’t matter to me, or anyone else, if I liked girls, or if I liked boys, or even if I was transgendered. I learned during those four years that my attraction wasn’t based on what other people thought.

  Killing yourself means you won’t get to go to college and say, “Man, that girl’s cute.” And have another girl say, “You’re so right.” You won’t get to go dancing and enjoy being twenty. You won’t get to experience all that life has to offer.

  It gets better. It will always get better. And you have no shame, no fear, and no hatred after this. Because what you realize is that other people are hateful because they don’t understand. And maybe they’re hateful toward themselves, too. Ignore them. Accept yourself. You are so beautiful and you always will be. Love yourself, and it will always, always, always get better.

  Shaun Ridgway is a twenty-two-year-old college student studying art history. She is looking forward to teaching abroad and experiencing the art of travel as much as possible.

  HOPE OUT OF TRAGEDY

  by Matthew Anthony Houck

  KALAHEO, HI

  In 1998, Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in Wyoming. His death weighed heavily on my heart. I knew that I had something in common with him.

  That same year I started at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. I was fourteen, and freshman year was already difficult. It is for many teenagers, but I also had a secret. My church taught that homosexuality was a sin, so I thought that some demon was growing inside of me tearing me away from God. I struggled with these thoughts, and finally confided in a friend at school about my sexuality.

  That same day that I talked with this person about my deep, dark secret, my best friend, Dan Rohrbough, was killed in the shooting at my school.

  On April 20, 1999, after making my “confession,” another friend invited me off-campus for lunch. I always spent the lunch hour in the library doing homework. That way, I could keep my lunch money for a new CD and eat at home later. By the time we’d gotten our food and headed back to school, the campus was in chaos. Police cars were everywhere and we weren’t allowed anywhere near the property. After being directed to a nearby neighborhood, a news broadcast interrupted the radio program to announce that there was a shooting in progress at Columbine High School. We had no idea the gravity of the situation until a few minutes later when we turned on the television at a friend’s house. What we saw was indescribable.

  The fact that I was out of the building during the time of the shooting was a miracle. I missed death by mere minutes. By the time our car was pulling out of the parking lot to lunch, the two killers were already on their way toward the building, guns fully loaded.

  Later that day I ended up at a local elementary school where survivors were gathering. I ran into Dan’s parents, who asked me if I had seen him. We had second-period science together and were lab partners so, of course, I had seen him, but not since lunch. I figured he was probably fine, that maybe he just couldn’t get in touch with anyone. No one, yet, knew anything about anyone for sure. Our suburban community had erupted with kids running everywhere, parents abandoning their cars in the middle of the street in search for their children, and the police trying to get victims to safety.

  I eventually made it home that evening with no new information on Dan’s whereabouts. My mom, on business in Florida, was on the next plane home. My brother, a senior that year, was lucky to make it out of the school in one piece. Late that night, our family was reunited. My mom walked into the house and hugged me and my brother so tight, afraid if she let us go, her sons would disappear forever. She held us for what seemed like days and just cried.

  The next morning my dad arrived with the newspaper in hand. I opened it, and right there on the second page, large and in color, was a photograph of Dan’s lifeless body lying on the ground outside the cafeteria. I ran upstairs to my room, crying so hard that it hurt. I immediately opened up my middle school yearbook. I needed to see a picture of his smiling face, instead of what I had just seen in the paper.

  Dan was one of twelve students and one teacher who were murdered that day. It was the largest school shooting in history. I went into shock. When the day had started, I was as a frightened teenager in fear of my own sexuality, and hours later I was a survivor of a shocking massacre that took my best friend’s life away. Coming out had gone to the back of my mind. I was now in mourning.

  Even before Columbine, I remember being scared and in the closet and not knowing if life was worth
it. Coming out was the scariest thing that I could have imagined. I remember thinking it was the end of the world. And then, after the shooting, my perspective changed. I suddenly realized how vulnerable we all were. All my fourteen-year-old concerns about adolescence, awkward puberty, and popularity meant little in the scheme of things.

  Columbine made me grow up fast. It taught me not to take for granted my relationships, and to forget petty arguments and disagreements and move on. It taught me that if I said good-bye to someone, I couldn’t assume I would see them again. It taught me that life was precious and could all be over in the blink of an eye!

  In the days that followed, I had to go back to school. I had to return to class and try to live a normal life in the same building where it had all taken place. Every day was a struggle. Every day I walked past the spot Dan was murdered. I knew there was a plan for my life, I just didn’t know what that was, and I was scared. I still hadn’t really dealt with my feelings of my sexuality and I hadn’t talked again to that friend I had confided in.

  By senior year, I was a peer counselor and learned a lot of ways to be there for other students going through hard times. I took these lessons to heart and was slowly learning to love myself for who I was. I don’t know where it came from or how, but this courage started growing inside me. I had planned to wait for college to come out. That way I could gain new experiences, meet new friends, and hopefully have a new life free of that fear.

  In the end, I couldn’t wait. I had to talk to somebody quick. I chose a friend named Julie who had already graduated. She wasn’t in my direct circle of friend and didn’t go to my church. Most importantly, I trusted her. She was so accepting, encouraging, loving, and nonjudgmental. She told me that she loved me no matter what. Her continuing support has given me the courage to open up to my family and other friends throughout the years. I have been so lucky to have the most amazing and supportive parents and brother.